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Mar. 22nd, 2004 01:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kbkpoetry festival stuff. ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
edithmatilda accompanied me to all events, which was good as otherwise I might have hung about outside going, "oh, hell."
I had a big list of things I was going to go to, but on Thursday I couldn't be arsed and on Friday I didn't get out of bed, and I slept through a fair bit of Saturday daytime as well. So the first thing was a reading at five o'clock in All Saints Hall, which was exciting as it's a church that's set back a bit from the road, between other buildings, and I've walked past it many times but never actually been inside.
I went because when I saw the listing, it just said it was Vicky Feaver, who had come in to replace another woman teaching the masterclass, and I felt quite sorry for her - was thinking of her as a "poor lass" though she turned out to be over fifty, but she was nervous and disorganised. And not on first. Also it said it was free, but it wasn't.
First was Steven Scobie. He had an acrostic poem, Six White Horses, in which the first word of each line combined to be a quotation - Mim laughed quite a lot at that, because the title had made her think of a song and the quotation was the obvious one from said song. And there was one, Unprotected, about when he was living in St Andrews and the other lodger in the house went out and screwed around and was a really nice guy. Oh, and he was the guy who did Munyal Sunyal (sp?) which is from a story told by a woman he knew in Canada who was one of The People, and it's about her seeing her first white man, and Munyal means "white man" and Sunyal means "money" and the sense of the last line is, "there is no rhyme without reason." And one about line, and he was all, um, neverending, resurrection, end is beginning, and margins and suchlike, being poetical line, which. I dunno, I just started thinking about what I would do for it.
Then was Vicky Feaver, who, like I said, was quite nervous-appearing. Some of her poetry was really quite scary, though. Like the one about falling in love with the stuffed gorilla and how she would dance with it, and that it had an enormous penis. And some that were art-inspired, including one about St Agatha with her breasts cut off - the weirdness in that did generally come from the painting. The one about a cupboard containing a woman's life, and going on about her past and what it is to be a woman and blood, blood, always blood... that was a bit creepy. Hmm. What else did she do? Some nature-ish ones.
Robert Crawford. Who was obviously a bit more practiced at performing. Mim said she suspected him of cultivating his Scottish accent because it's good for doing readings in. Thing is, at least half of the ones he read were translations of other people's poems - paraphrased, perhaps, maybe even re-imaginations, but it still doesn't feel like those are his poems, like he has enough claim on them to read them... I mean, it didn't say he would be reading his own, though they were his own, but. I don't know. Bugs me. Like, there was a Call To Arms that was from Gaelic, few hundred years old, and the thing he liked was the use of the alphabet and the rhythm - apparently the original goes through each letter of the alphabet for, um. epithets? There's a top and tail to it that includes the line, "Strength in the eye of the storm," and the main body is a list of things they should be, "Be brave, be..." oh, hell, I can't remember, but there were four beginning with b, and then four with another letter, so on, so forth. It was good. And he was loud about it. But it's not his own. Um, anyway. He performed. Um. Muses for Scotstarvit. Stuff.
It took us a little while to get out. But it is a nice little church, and we were sat up in the balcony - lady moved her stuff so we could sit on seats and not the steps at the window, which was nice. So after that we went to... um, Tesco. And bought food. Then we went to the Byre. See, we meant to just walk through and look at the exhibitions there, but we ended up sitting and having a drink, andnickthewaster found us, and. yeah. But! A Garland For The Byre was great. It was just a big circle of paper, hung from the ceiling and slowly spinning, with a poem set around the inside - and the poem just went round, and round, you could start pretty much wherever and it worked. And it gave us an excuse to stand and spin round in public, because obviously it was too slow to just stand there and let it go by - seriously, I'm physically incapable of reading that slowly.
We didn't go up to the Burns exhibit because neither of us like him that much, though of course that's more allowed from me as I am Scottish. But, yeah. He's all right, I like a few of them, but it's not like I'm particularly fond of any poetry from that era.
And down in the bar/restaurant was some art and poems - I was too scared to go wander the restaurant bit, but there were a couple of pictures that I really quite liked in the bar, and poems were alright - I liked one that. I think the old men were a metaphor. But they were old men that had been chucked out the house because they were underfoot, and at the end they got let back in for their tea.
Then we three went back to Gatty and ate. And then we went to the Open Mic night. Oh, wait, um, just before we left,redistributer turned up at the house absolutely steamin', and bedded down on the floor in the upstairs corridor. That was quite funny.
Open Mic night! Was in Aikman's, which is nice, and we got there about ten minutes after it started and the place was pretty much full - not that it's that big, but... forty people? more? And I put my name down to read. There was a girl up when we got there, but I don't remember what she was doing. Then a guy got up and did his altered version of My Luv Is Like A Red Red Rose. And, um. Oh, I can't remember. People. Many people. Italian woman with a poem about her kids, and how they look so sweet and innocent and they're bloody terrorists, and oh yeah, it was the teddy bear that did all the damage. And she had another about, um, driving down Italy, down all these winding roads. And a woman with one called Bellydancing that was all, how she wanted to but she has a scar from an operation from an ectopic pregnancy (child died), which was eek. I think it was her that had the concrete poem, which was a stave with ar-pegg-i-o written up in the note positions, which was cool, but she sang it out. Um. Um. Sweet little old lady with the poem about this lady who wanted her coalman, and how the grime would settle all over him, and there'd be a line above his socks, and his forehead would be white, and. Hmm. Another woman with a poem called Beat Him, Eat Him which was a list of things to do to a man which was a bit saucy and ended with "find out if you broke him." Um, other people... One explaned how his printer was broken and there was this whole thing with parts, and so he was reading from handwriting. Um. Trying to remember other people, but I was all worrying about going up, so. There was a girl after me who'd left her book at home, but got given something else to read. Um. Ooh! The, the archaeologist! He was quite early, and he was good, he had workmen pissing in the corners of the trenches, and, um, dead fish, and one about his science teacher, which was one of those ones that is great because it's true, this teacher whose father was a stevedore or some such, this big guy, and he tells them they'll have to share Bunsen burners because the bloody government won't give them enough money, and the van der Graaf! and he picks the daft wee girl and has her come up and shocks her over and over again. He was good.
I read mine, and I was scared, but apparently so were the people listening, which was cool. Nick said the host (obnoxious man, btw) looked surprised, like he'd been expecting a sweet little poem and then... yeah. That was part of the intent of it, so I'm glad that worked. And I got clapped quite a bit. And, and, yeah. Bounced afterwards. Host man finished off the readings with one of his that was actually really good - shock and awe, anniversary of war, and two hearts silently communicating. But he's still an obnoxious man.
And then we went downstairs and drank. That was good. Mmm. Beer.
Went home and was online for hours and hours. Sent poems to an Open Mouse page that was mentioned at thing - turns out guy who mentioned is guy who runs, and I had been all "guy mentioned, don't remember who," and. I dunno. But two of my poems are up, Mothering Sunday and Song which is a little bit of crap I wrote a while ago.
Then on Sunday Mim and I went to the hobbit-hole, as she calls it - Mediaeval History - thing is, I didn't know what it was called, so I looked at the name and went, "I have no idea where that is," but if they'd said MH... But it is a little warren-y and the room we were in had a barrel ceiling, and it's called St John's House Undercroft, and Frodo's fake name is Underwood, so. Was a reading, theme of languages of Scotland.
Angus Peter Campbell - in Gaelic and English. Quite Scotland-centric. The Tinker was somewhat odd, it was this tinker with his pans and rags and bits and bobs, and he comes to the city and calls out his wares and he. mends the poetry and songs. Ooh, bit, um. sense is, "you watch the twin towers fall and clutch your lucky white heather that, even though you didn't buy anything, I gave you, as something of a curse." And Bonnie Prince Charlie's Return To Scotland, 2002 which was quite good, and actually kind of worked even not understanding the Gaelic - partly because of him acting, a little, partly because of the words that were in English - and nicely enough, that was pretty much all of the things he disapproved of. But, as Mim said, like Lara says, it's all "feeshta feeshta feeshta chauffeur-driven limousine feeshta feeshta". One about Mars, that was really about being a child on... Uist, was it? and seeing Mars. And, um. others.
Christine DeLuca - Shetlandic and English. I was kind of pouting, because when I first looked at the, thing, programme, I'd thought I'd be going to Shetland. But Iceland instead! Um. Anyway. She seemed like a nice lady. Wow, that's informative. But she did. And the Shetlandic sounded... lovely is the wrong word, because it's... she said it was quite muscular, and it is. Sounds good, though. Poems. Being on the ferry to Shetland, in rough weather. Existential Paragliding in Turkey - no, really, thrill of flight, ending, (sense of) "Erdfast, we gather the aerial view, piece by piece, through hard graft" and that's so misremembered it's not true, but I love the word erdfast (sp?) meaning - well, it's more an adjective, she said that a rock you simply couldn't move, couldn't shift out of the ground, would be erdfast. A pair of poems set about a hundred years ago, a woman of The People and a woman in Shetland, and their lives, the day-to-day tasks, and watching a canoe/sixern (sp?) (six-oared fishing-boat) going off to fish and waiting for it to come back - the parallels were amazing. A love poem by a Canadian woman, translated, set back a hundred and fifty years or so - letters written while the man is out at sea. Um. Oh! A story, a true story, about a woman who lived in Shetland a couple of hundred years ago, and her lover was away to sea and she lived with his family and looked after his brothers and sisters because their mither wis deid, and they thought he'd died away at sea, so she married his father. And six months later her lover came back. And she went and threw herself into the sea. As you do. But, it was. Oh, God. The angst.
James Robertson - "Scots and English", despite Mim's indignation at the suggestion that Scots is a valid dialect if you're ignoring the vast variety within English. Sergeant Snoddy frae Kirkcaldy was a kids poem but it was good and funny. Um. God. What did he do? I think my attention wandered, a bit. Um. I'm sure he did well.
And then we went to Janetta's and got icecream because it was sunny. And then we went to the Crawford Arts Centre and looked at the exhibition on printing and were scared by the art so walked quite quickly and found the poetry bit, which had a case with little sewn-together books, and The Meaning Of Water. Oh. Boy. Oh. Boy. Big shallow pool of water with the light reflecting off it, and a poem projected onto the back wall. Poem seemed to get more ponderous every time it cycled past, but... water. And sticks to play with the water. There were a couple of kids when we got there, stirring up ripples, and some of the patterns looked like flames, partly because of the colour of the light, but still... and, and. yay. They left, eventually, and we played for a bit, and I was being somewhat physicsy and also somewhat pissy about the line in the poem, um, "Waters rinsed in all astronomy" or something like that, because, well, it made no sense to me, and also I do get pissy about astronomy-used-as-metaphor because often they use things far too loosely. I mean, I'm sure I'd be guilty of it if I tried to do, I don't know, biology metaphor, history, socio-political wankery, but that's why I don't do that! Um. Yeah. But we played with the water. And middle-aged woman came down and played too. Was fab.
Then went to Preservation Trust Museum to see The Hirta Portfolio which was quite cool. Though, we went into the museum, and first looked around the shop, and the fake dentist's room they have - the fake teeth! so many fake teeth! and then went upstairs and looked at thing, which was quite cool, and was on nice paper, and was poems and etchings (so it was interesting that we'd detoured into the printing thing at the CAC because that had some stuff about etching) and, um. was good. There was a list of names of the people that got taken off, and there were only about thirty. And about half of them had the same surname. And three of them had the exact same name - which may have been a grandmother-mother-daughter thing, because there were a couple of fairly obvious father-son things. There were only about four surnames. Which is the kind of thing that interests me, in a way, because it makes you wonder about the people, and how they're all related and suchlike. Gravestones are better for that, in a way, even if they just have the dates you can work a bit out. And we went downstairs and into the fake chemists, and it had all these green glass jars, and a travelling medicine cabinet that was really nice, and the guy that used to own it at one point had a parrot that rode around on town on his shoulder on Sundays. also, "You have never learned Zoology, but you have an education," or sth like, said to same man. And went into their garden, which was nice - folding bicycle that paras used in WWII. Bought a couple of things in shop.
Got money, went to Macgregors, spent money, decided not to go to reading, went home - intended to drop into Byre on way to see stuff again, but it was closed. Got home. Went on internet.
Shaved head.
edithmatilda accompanied me to all events, which was good as otherwise I might have hung about outside going, "oh, hell."I had a big list of things I was going to go to, but on Thursday I couldn't be arsed and on Friday I didn't get out of bed, and I slept through a fair bit of Saturday daytime as well. So the first thing was a reading at five o'clock in All Saints Hall, which was exciting as it's a church that's set back a bit from the road, between other buildings, and I've walked past it many times but never actually been inside.
I went because when I saw the listing, it just said it was Vicky Feaver, who had come in to replace another woman teaching the masterclass, and I felt quite sorry for her - was thinking of her as a "poor lass" though she turned out to be over fifty, but she was nervous and disorganised. And not on first. Also it said it was free, but it wasn't.
First was Steven Scobie. He had an acrostic poem, Six White Horses, in which the first word of each line combined to be a quotation - Mim laughed quite a lot at that, because the title had made her think of a song and the quotation was the obvious one from said song. And there was one, Unprotected, about when he was living in St Andrews and the other lodger in the house went out and screwed around and was a really nice guy. Oh, and he was the guy who did Munyal Sunyal (sp?) which is from a story told by a woman he knew in Canada who was one of The People, and it's about her seeing her first white man, and Munyal means "white man" and Sunyal means "money" and the sense of the last line is, "there is no rhyme without reason." And one about line, and he was all, um, neverending, resurrection, end is beginning, and margins and suchlike, being poetical line, which. I dunno, I just started thinking about what I would do for it.
Then was Vicky Feaver, who, like I said, was quite nervous-appearing. Some of her poetry was really quite scary, though. Like the one about falling in love with the stuffed gorilla and how she would dance with it, and that it had an enormous penis. And some that were art-inspired, including one about St Agatha with her breasts cut off - the weirdness in that did generally come from the painting. The one about a cupboard containing a woman's life, and going on about her past and what it is to be a woman and blood, blood, always blood... that was a bit creepy. Hmm. What else did she do? Some nature-ish ones.
Robert Crawford. Who was obviously a bit more practiced at performing. Mim said she suspected him of cultivating his Scottish accent because it's good for doing readings in. Thing is, at least half of the ones he read were translations of other people's poems - paraphrased, perhaps, maybe even re-imaginations, but it still doesn't feel like those are his poems, like he has enough claim on them to read them... I mean, it didn't say he would be reading his own, though they were his own, but. I don't know. Bugs me. Like, there was a Call To Arms that was from Gaelic, few hundred years old, and the thing he liked was the use of the alphabet and the rhythm - apparently the original goes through each letter of the alphabet for, um. epithets? There's a top and tail to it that includes the line, "Strength in the eye of the storm," and the main body is a list of things they should be, "Be brave, be..." oh, hell, I can't remember, but there were four beginning with b, and then four with another letter, so on, so forth. It was good. And he was loud about it. But it's not his own. Um, anyway. He performed. Um. Muses for Scotstarvit. Stuff.
It took us a little while to get out. But it is a nice little church, and we were sat up in the balcony - lady moved her stuff so we could sit on seats and not the steps at the window, which was nice. So after that we went to... um, Tesco. And bought food. Then we went to the Byre. See, we meant to just walk through and look at the exhibitions there, but we ended up sitting and having a drink, and
nickthewaster found us, and. yeah. But! A Garland For The Byre was great. It was just a big circle of paper, hung from the ceiling and slowly spinning, with a poem set around the inside - and the poem just went round, and round, you could start pretty much wherever and it worked. And it gave us an excuse to stand and spin round in public, because obviously it was too slow to just stand there and let it go by - seriously, I'm physically incapable of reading that slowly. We didn't go up to the Burns exhibit because neither of us like him that much, though of course that's more allowed from me as I am Scottish. But, yeah. He's all right, I like a few of them, but it's not like I'm particularly fond of any poetry from that era.
And down in the bar/restaurant was some art and poems - I was too scared to go wander the restaurant bit, but there were a couple of pictures that I really quite liked in the bar, and poems were alright - I liked one that. I think the old men were a metaphor. But they were old men that had been chucked out the house because they were underfoot, and at the end they got let back in for their tea.
Then we three went back to Gatty and ate. And then we went to the Open Mic night. Oh, wait, um, just before we left,
redistributer turned up at the house absolutely steamin', and bedded down on the floor in the upstairs corridor. That was quite funny. Open Mic night! Was in Aikman's, which is nice, and we got there about ten minutes after it started and the place was pretty much full - not that it's that big, but... forty people? more? And I put my name down to read. There was a girl up when we got there, but I don't remember what she was doing. Then a guy got up and did his altered version of My Luv Is Like A Red Red Rose. And, um. Oh, I can't remember. People. Many people. Italian woman with a poem about her kids, and how they look so sweet and innocent and they're bloody terrorists, and oh yeah, it was the teddy bear that did all the damage. And she had another about, um, driving down Italy, down all these winding roads. And a woman with one called Bellydancing that was all, how she wanted to but she has a scar from an operation from an ectopic pregnancy (child died), which was eek. I think it was her that had the concrete poem, which was a stave with ar-pegg-i-o written up in the note positions, which was cool, but she sang it out. Um. Um. Sweet little old lady with the poem about this lady who wanted her coalman, and how the grime would settle all over him, and there'd be a line above his socks, and his forehead would be white, and. Hmm. Another woman with a poem called Beat Him, Eat Him which was a list of things to do to a man which was a bit saucy and ended with "find out if you broke him." Um, other people... One explaned how his printer was broken and there was this whole thing with parts, and so he was reading from handwriting. Um. Trying to remember other people, but I was all worrying about going up, so. There was a girl after me who'd left her book at home, but got given something else to read. Um. Ooh! The, the archaeologist! He was quite early, and he was good, he had workmen pissing in the corners of the trenches, and, um, dead fish, and one about his science teacher, which was one of those ones that is great because it's true, this teacher whose father was a stevedore or some such, this big guy, and he tells them they'll have to share Bunsen burners because the bloody government won't give them enough money, and the van der Graaf! and he picks the daft wee girl and has her come up and shocks her over and over again. He was good.
I read mine, and I was scared, but apparently so were the people listening, which was cool. Nick said the host (obnoxious man, btw) looked surprised, like he'd been expecting a sweet little poem and then... yeah. That was part of the intent of it, so I'm glad that worked. And I got clapped quite a bit. And, and, yeah. Bounced afterwards. Host man finished off the readings with one of his that was actually really good - shock and awe, anniversary of war, and two hearts silently communicating. But he's still an obnoxious man.
And then we went downstairs and drank. That was good. Mmm. Beer.
Went home and was online for hours and hours. Sent poems to an Open Mouse page that was mentioned at thing - turns out guy who mentioned is guy who runs, and I had been all "guy mentioned, don't remember who," and. I dunno. But two of my poems are up, Mothering Sunday and Song which is a little bit of crap I wrote a while ago.
Then on Sunday Mim and I went to the hobbit-hole, as she calls it - Mediaeval History - thing is, I didn't know what it was called, so I looked at the name and went, "I have no idea where that is," but if they'd said MH... But it is a little warren-y and the room we were in had a barrel ceiling, and it's called St John's House Undercroft, and Frodo's fake name is Underwood, so. Was a reading, theme of languages of Scotland.
Angus Peter Campbell - in Gaelic and English. Quite Scotland-centric. The Tinker was somewhat odd, it was this tinker with his pans and rags and bits and bobs, and he comes to the city and calls out his wares and he. mends the poetry and songs. Ooh, bit, um. sense is, "you watch the twin towers fall and clutch your lucky white heather that, even though you didn't buy anything, I gave you, as something of a curse." And Bonnie Prince Charlie's Return To Scotland, 2002 which was quite good, and actually kind of worked even not understanding the Gaelic - partly because of him acting, a little, partly because of the words that were in English - and nicely enough, that was pretty much all of the things he disapproved of. But, as Mim said, like Lara says, it's all "feeshta feeshta feeshta chauffeur-driven limousine feeshta feeshta". One about Mars, that was really about being a child on... Uist, was it? and seeing Mars. And, um. others.
Christine DeLuca - Shetlandic and English. I was kind of pouting, because when I first looked at the, thing, programme, I'd thought I'd be going to Shetland. But Iceland instead! Um. Anyway. She seemed like a nice lady. Wow, that's informative. But she did. And the Shetlandic sounded... lovely is the wrong word, because it's... she said it was quite muscular, and it is. Sounds good, though. Poems. Being on the ferry to Shetland, in rough weather. Existential Paragliding in Turkey - no, really, thrill of flight, ending, (sense of) "Erdfast, we gather the aerial view, piece by piece, through hard graft" and that's so misremembered it's not true, but I love the word erdfast (sp?) meaning - well, it's more an adjective, she said that a rock you simply couldn't move, couldn't shift out of the ground, would be erdfast. A pair of poems set about a hundred years ago, a woman of The People and a woman in Shetland, and their lives, the day-to-day tasks, and watching a canoe/sixern (sp?) (six-oared fishing-boat) going off to fish and waiting for it to come back - the parallels were amazing. A love poem by a Canadian woman, translated, set back a hundred and fifty years or so - letters written while the man is out at sea. Um. Oh! A story, a true story, about a woman who lived in Shetland a couple of hundred years ago, and her lover was away to sea and she lived with his family and looked after his brothers and sisters because their mither wis deid, and they thought he'd died away at sea, so she married his father. And six months later her lover came back. And she went and threw herself into the sea. As you do. But, it was. Oh, God. The angst.
James Robertson - "Scots and English", despite Mim's indignation at the suggestion that Scots is a valid dialect if you're ignoring the vast variety within English. Sergeant Snoddy frae Kirkcaldy was a kids poem but it was good and funny. Um. God. What did he do? I think my attention wandered, a bit. Um. I'm sure he did well.
And then we went to Janetta's and got icecream because it was sunny. And then we went to the Crawford Arts Centre and looked at the exhibition on printing and were scared by the art so walked quite quickly and found the poetry bit, which had a case with little sewn-together books, and The Meaning Of Water. Oh. Boy. Oh. Boy. Big shallow pool of water with the light reflecting off it, and a poem projected onto the back wall. Poem seemed to get more ponderous every time it cycled past, but... water. And sticks to play with the water. There were a couple of kids when we got there, stirring up ripples, and some of the patterns looked like flames, partly because of the colour of the light, but still... and, and. yay. They left, eventually, and we played for a bit, and I was being somewhat physicsy and also somewhat pissy about the line in the poem, um, "Waters rinsed in all astronomy" or something like that, because, well, it made no sense to me, and also I do get pissy about astronomy-used-as-metaphor because often they use things far too loosely. I mean, I'm sure I'd be guilty of it if I tried to do, I don't know, biology metaphor, history, socio-political wankery, but that's why I don't do that! Um. Yeah. But we played with the water. And middle-aged woman came down and played too. Was fab.
Then went to Preservation Trust Museum to see The Hirta Portfolio which was quite cool. Though, we went into the museum, and first looked around the shop, and the fake dentist's room they have - the fake teeth! so many fake teeth! and then went upstairs and looked at thing, which was quite cool, and was on nice paper, and was poems and etchings (so it was interesting that we'd detoured into the printing thing at the CAC because that had some stuff about etching) and, um. was good. There was a list of names of the people that got taken off, and there were only about thirty. And about half of them had the same surname. And three of them had the exact same name - which may have been a grandmother-mother-daughter thing, because there were a couple of fairly obvious father-son things. There were only about four surnames. Which is the kind of thing that interests me, in a way, because it makes you wonder about the people, and how they're all related and suchlike. Gravestones are better for that, in a way, even if they just have the dates you can work a bit out. And we went downstairs and into the fake chemists, and it had all these green glass jars, and a travelling medicine cabinet that was really nice, and the guy that used to own it at one point had a parrot that rode around on town on his shoulder on Sundays. also, "You have never learned Zoology, but you have an education," or sth like, said to same man. And went into their garden, which was nice - folding bicycle that paras used in WWII. Bought a couple of things in shop.
Got money, went to Macgregors, spent money, decided not to go to reading, went home - intended to drop into Byre on way to see stuff again, but it was closed. Got home. Went on internet.
Shaved head.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2004-03-22 08:18 am (UTC)And Mim, being lame, got out her tape measure and measured the water thing to see whether it really was bigger than a Gatty room. And lo! 'twas the size of two Gatty rooms! And there was wailing and gnashing of teeth.
no subject
Date: 2004-03-22 09:17 am (UTC)And the part where the hall it was in was bigger than an entire Gatty house!
no subject
Date: 2004-03-22 11:37 am (UTC)But Douglas Dunn is jolly important.
the thing is...
Date: 2004-03-22 08:28 am (UTC)Any compare may only be one drink behind his audience.
At around 10.30 - 11ish, I can imagine many drinks to be consume and therefore he was a bit ratted.
Can't wait to see shaven head.
*must not point and laugh*
Re: the thing is...
Date: 2004-03-22 09:08 am (UTC)you can point and laugh if you want, but I may cry.
no subject
Date: 2004-03-23 03:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-03-23 09:57 pm (UTC)